


First time prompt response - SG First Aid

by ultharkitty



Category: Transformers: Shattered Glass
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-20
Updated: 2011-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-22 20:58:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Optimus enjoys one of the perks of being Prime.</p><p>Content advice: nonconsensual sex, nonconsensual administering of an aphrodisiac, explicit sticky, abuse of power, size kink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First time prompt response - SG First Aid

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to a meme on LJ where people name a character and the writer produces a short fic about how they lost their virginity. This one was written for xianghua, who asked for SG First Aid.
> 
> This is set in the same AU as 'The Adventures of Mirrorverse Vortex'.

The world was made of purple and glass and little green lights. Everything swam, the things inside First Aid's head as well as the things outside of it. He remembered a datachip, dark fingers slotting it into him, then a rush of heat and a dizziness that just wouldn't end.

He heard his Prime's voice, so deep and relaxing, and he couldn't make out the words, but the sound, oh the sound he could float on forever. He caught a light under his palm and laughed, then the world lurched, the colours spinning and swirling, and he lost it again. It didn't matter, though, because his Prime was still talking, inflection rising in query. First Aid tried to look up, to find those red eyes in the whirlpool, but a sudden heat burst out from his ember and he forgot what it was he was searching for.

He squirmed, restless, not quite comfortable. He tried to bring his legs together, but his thighs were parted around his Prime’s hips, the joints stretched so far his servos groaned. The heat was tremendous, a terrible friction burning every circuit, searing along each wire. Something touched the panel between his legs and he whined long and high, an ache spearing up into the core of him, intense and agonising.

Words flitted across his HUD, but he lacked the focus to read them. Another touch between his legs, and a rumble of his Prime's powerful engine. It shook through him, forcing him to shutter his optics, to cling with his thighs lest his grip on Optimus fail and he fall.

He didn't want to fall. He wanted the little green lights, he wanted coolant; he wanted the heat and the itch and the urgent frustration to be gone. And the ache, which only got worse as his Prime stroked him, and the warmth from Optimus's vents tingled in his transformation seams.

Then somehow his armour came loose, and a tiny fraction of the heat ebbed away. But it was replaced with a discomforting sensation of exposure, made all the worse for the very clear feeling of something - something stiff and slick and wide – touching that most vulnerable part of himself, and pushing steadily inside.

It stung, oh _frag_ how it stung. It was too much, too slow, too large. But his engine revved regardless, and he writhed to make the whole thing faster, to force an increase in friction in the desperate hope it would make the pain subside.

It didn’t. Wires stretched and the tiny gears that controlled the expansion and contraction of his valve screeched their complaint in line after line of warnings flashing up on his HUD. Then a pressure on his hips, fingers tight as his Prime moved him, each impact jarring right the way through First Aid’s frame. His head ached with every thud, and his thoughts were a storm of fragments, nothing cohesive, nothing linked.

When it came, the fluid seared, and he whimpered as his Prime withdrew and the liquid trickled, caustic, over every damaged sensor.

Then a pressure against his back, and something new between his legs. A fresh warmth, a wriggling object smaller than the spike. It pressed inside him, not large enough to stretch him – not after _that_ – and lapped over the raw, sore metal. It made his gears turn again, made him attempt to cycle down around it. He brought his optics online, and tried to look past the rise of his abdominal armour to see what it was that had managed to spark pleasure in the midst of so much hurt.

He saw dark antennae, the glow of red optics. Then he screamed as the heat and the tension and the cruel, urgent frustration reached a peak all at once.

He seemed to collapse, his limbs weak and his engine stuttering. A roar in his audials could have been his fans, but it could have been his Prime’s engine. He couldn’t tell which way was up, but that might be OK; he wasn’t falling any more, and the little green lights were back. His optics flickered as he tried to focus on them.

“Give him a cycle,” the Prime said, “then bring him to me again.” But First Aid didn’t catch the meaning; he was far too busy trying to catch the lights.


End file.
